


They Call 'Em 'Team Rainbow' For A Reason

by cheggsbenedict



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Multi, can't stop me from making everyone gay, putting the rainbow in rainbow six
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-17 11:42:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16973961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheggsbenedict/pseuds/cheggsbenedict
Summary: This is a place for me to collect the pile of garbage that I've accumulated after putting many, many hours into this game. Most of this is going to be whimsical slice of life bullshit about what happens in between operations around the base when it's chock a block full of bis, gays, lesbians (and one Pulse.)





	1. A Fortified Stronghold

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is something that struck me one night and refused to let me go to sleep until I finished it. It's also the first time I've finished a story I started in many years, so pardon the rust.

The prevailing mood throughout the mess hall at RAF Hereford was as miserable as the weather, the dull grey butts dumping sheets of freezing rain onto the quiet base.

It had taken less than thirty seconds for trouble to break out at the table where the Bureau agents had parked their asses.

“Look, I just don’t understand why we’re not supposed to attend. I mean, I’m not, you know, but I support them and --”

Six eyes rolled in unison, with Castle one-upping his associates by dragging a hand down his face with a long, weary sigh, interrupting Pulse.

“No. Cops. At. Pride. Is there something hard to understand about that, my man?” he responded, gesturing at Pulse with the business end of his fork before using it to shovel a small mountain of scrambled egg into his mouth.

“But--”

“Jack, you’re walking a mighty dangerous path with this line of inquiry, and I ain’t in any kind of mood for it.” It was Thermite’s turn to interject. “‘Sides, you know the rules. No politics at the table.”

“Please, the last thing I need is Six crawling up my ass over another ‘domestic dispute’. Find a new topic, boys.” Ash worked through her plate with machine-like efficiency, not looking up from it as she addressed the rest of the table.

Castle watched as Pulse opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, heaved a petulant sigh and adjusted his sunglasses. _This stupid wearing-sunglasses-indoors motherfucker_.

He speared one of the fried peppers, nodding in Ash’s direction. “So, what’s the plan? Intel reports and range time, same as usual?” The downtime between operations was a fairly regimented routine, he’d found. Regular briefings from the various member nations’ intelligence services on projected White Mask activity, usually bookended by combat drills and regular training.

“Pretty much. Bureau’s sending us a list of potential stateside targets for threat assessment.”

_Kill me now._

Ash looked up and saw the look on his face, which prompted a coarse chuckle. “Don’t worry, you’re off the hook. I’m dragooning Trace for backup. Six thinks he’s charming, for some reason.”

“Hey, now. I’m plenty charming, thank you kindly,” came a mock-hurt response from Thermite, who had managed to inhale the greater part of his meal like a human Dyson.

“Range time at sixteen hundred? Should be able to link up with the locals, kick their asses again,” Castle suggested.

They all turned in unison to peer across the room, where it looked like the SAS members of Rainbow were having their own version of the morning rundown as they tucked into their breakfast. Thatcher noticed this, Castle saw, and made finger guns in his direction. Well, their direction, Castle reminded himself, but the older Brit had a way of making everything he did seem like it was only referring to you.

Shaking his head, he returned his attention to the table.They penciled in the time and the conversation dwindled as they finished eating and each went about their business.

Castle felt restless, a little stir-crazy. Under normal circumstances, their daily five mile run would have taken them through the grounds of the repurposed RAF base, but the British winter was in full swing and the rain made things miserable. Treadmills had been one of the first additions to the base’s gym once the reactivation funding had rolled in, but there was a certain sense of fulfillment that Castle thought it lacked.

It was a mad sprint through the rain from the mess hall to the workout room, and Castle cursed himself for not having picked up a proper raincoat or umbrella the last time he went off-base to shop. Thankfully, he found himself alone as he entered the workout room, grateful that nobody was around to raz him for how ridiculous he looked as he trailed water behind him.

Six had managed to shake loose some room in the budget when they had reactivated Rainbow and started expanding, and it showed in the amenities and training equipment available to the soldiers stationed at Hereford.  _Beats the hell out of Planet Fitness_ , Castle thought. He ducked into the men’s locker room, peeling off his drenched clothing and setting them on the bench to dry as he pulled a wrinkled set of BDUs from his locker.

“‘Allo!” said the person sitting in the corner of the locker room.

“Jesus Christ!” replied Castle, suddenly thankful for his empty bladder.

“Non, not quite,” Montagne replied, not bothering to look up from the weathered paperback novel he was clearly invested in.

“Man, what the hell are you doing hiding in here like this?” Castle asked incredulously, kicking himself for not having spotted the literal mountain of a man before stripping down bare-ass naked in full view. He hurriedly pulled his workout ensemble on, closing the locker and realizing that the question had gone unanswered.

He approached Montagne, who, finally looked up from his book with a raised brow. Castle wasn’t sure what to make of the unspoken insinuation that he was the one who was out of place, as though Montagne’s choice of reading environment was unquestionable.

“Que te lis?” Castle asked, gesturing to the worn paperback. The pleasant surprise on Montagne’s face was a sight.

“Ah, parlez vous?” Montagne pushed himself up from the ground, extending the book towards Castle as he continued in French. “It is an airport novel. You know, spy fiction, that kind of thing.”

Castle caught the sheepish look, then scanned the cover before handing it back. It was titled ‘Le Coeur de Miel’, with an illustration of a man’s cupped hands overflowing with honey.

_‘Spy fiction’ my ass_ , said Castle’s brain.

“Spy fiction, huh? Interesting.” said Castle’s mouth, the conversation continuing in French. “Well, my silent friend, do you have any interest in using the gym for its intended purpose? I could use someone on the heavy bag.”

“Of course, Miles,” was the reply, as Montagne returned the book to his own locker, and the two of them returned to the gym proper.

_Slow your roll, my man_ , Castle thought, glancing over at Montagne as they approached the heavy bag. The GIGN operative had barely an inch on him, and maybe ten pounds at best, but Castle could see why Toure was known as ‘The Mountain’. He carried himself with a steadfast composure, seemingly unfazed by anything. How Six had managed to sweet-talk the French into giving up such an asset was anyone’s fucking guess at this point.

Castle allowed himself another look. _Prized ass-et, indeed._

“Miles, the bag? You’re planning to throw a punch, yes?” teased Montagne.

_Ah, son of a bitch. Were you staring? You were staring! Fuck!_ Castle berated himself as he squared up to the bag, dropping into a fighter’s stance and throwing combinations of hooks and jabs as Montagne braced the bag.

They settled into a routine, with Montagne calling out a set and Castle delivering each blow with a practiced ferocity. It was a good way to work out the frustrations of the day, of which there had already been too many for his liking.

“Fucking Estrada, man…” he heard himself say, cutting himself off as Montagne peeked around the bag at him inquisitively.

“You know, I must admit I am surprised that such a socially awkward man was one of your FBI’s hostage rescue negotiators,” the Frenchman remarked.

“Fuckin’ tell me about it.”

“What was it this time?”

“Ah, he’s always got himself spooled up about something or another, you know how it is. Always gotta make sure we can see how woke he is. This time it’s the gay pride parades back home, he wants us to go next year if we're off rotation,” Castle wasn’t sure if the cultural significance would click with Montagne, but the brief glance he allowed himself assuaged the concern.

Montagne held up a hand, indicating a switch, and Castle nodded. The two traded roles, with Castle bracing the bag for his fellow operative.

“He fails to grasp the symbolism, the reason behind abstaining,” Montagne finally agreed. It was a diplomatic answer.

“My man fails to grasp his own ass with both hands,” quipped an agitated Castle, just as Montagne’s first blow struck the bag and nearly knocked him on his ass. The American corrected his stance immediately, but it didn’t go without notice, as there was a bassy chuckle from Montagne while he wound up for another strike.

Montagne was slower, more deliberate, with a smoldering fury behind each solid hook that Castle could practically feel in his bones. The conversation seemed to be on hold, and Castle wasn’t about to press, as he was getting the impression that the big fella had his own frustrations to work out. The man was an artist, Castle thought, stringing together combinations that would have folded him cleanly in half had the punching bag not been there to absorb the blows.

“I’ll have words with him,” Montagne finally said, stepping back from the bag and using the neckline of his shirt to wipe sweat from his eyes.

Castle couldn’t help but joke. “Have words with him as in talk, or have words as in…” he trailed off, tapping the bag with his fist.

He was expecting a laugh, but the look on Montagne’s face was serious and earnest, catching him off guard. “You know I would not. It’s a real concern, this divide. We must be able to stand shoulder to shoulder with each other, or else what good is Rainbow? What good are we?”

Under any other circumstance, the cynical FBI agent in him would have burst into laughter. People like this weren’t real, right? But here he was, in the flesh. And muscle. Castle coughed, unsure how to respond.

Montagne noticed and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, smiling confidently at the American. “It will work out, I will have everything under control.”

And Castle genuinely believed him.

_Man, where the fuck did they find this guy?_ Castle shook his head, realizing that he was smiling despite himself for the first time today. “Yeah, sure thing, my man. You get him to shut up and I’m pretty sure everyone in Rainbow will line up to buy you a beer.”

There was another chuckle, and it only just now clicked with Castle that the man’s hand was still on his shoulder, which he squeezed once before letting go.

“A beer with you would be more than fair, my friend,” the Frenchman said with a winning smile, before he squared up to the bag and nodded. “Your turn, show me some of that American fighting spirit.”

The American was more than willing to oblige. They kept the routine going for some time, with the hour mark having come and gone before either realized. The Mountain was one hell of a motivator, the agent concluded as he finally stepped away.

Raising his hands in surrender, he shook his head. “All right, I’m tapping out. You win, I can’t keep up.”

Castle saw the knowing smile on his face and sucked on his teeth. The silence was somehow more smug than any kind of quip that Montagne could have replied with. He saw the Frenchman roll his shoulders and wince at the audible pop, clenching his hand for a moment before bringing it up to tap his fist against Castle’s shoulder.

“You were impressive, Miles, don’t sell yourself short. Let’s do this again, yes?” he asked, turning to head back to the locker room and motioning for his companion to follow. Castle’s response was a mildly distracted, “For sure.” as he hung back to watch the other man pull his sweat-soaked shirt up and off, before vanishing through the doorway.

_Ah. Son of a bitch._

This one would be trouble, he thought to himself. He chuckled, shaking his head as he resigned himself to the impending awkwardness and made his way to the locker room.

_You’ve gotten yourself out of worse things, right?_

_Hah. Yeah, right._


	2. A Six Pint Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thatcher is in his cups and faces a few unpleasant truths.

The sun was barely starting to dip below the horizon and by Thatcher’s count, he was already four pints in. The regimental NCO club at Hereford had been a staple since the old days - it, like the base proper, was one of the few things left around here that was still older than he was, and as such it was one of his favored haunts he’d come to lurk in when he felt the need to tether himself to something familiar. 

He looked down at his pint glass, swirling around the dregs with a sullen expression as he turned the pressing question over in his head. Was he not good enough anymore? He’d always been the voice of experience - if not reason - for the rest of the team. Six had made it pretty clear to him when she asked him to handpick the SAS attachment. He’d been around the block more than once, had been personally tested more times than some of these recent CTU members combined, even… and yet. He scowled into the bottom of his glass, then tapped the bartop and gestured with the empty towards the barkeep.

“Christ Almighty, boy, they have you running through a desert now?” The barkeep was a ruddy-faced old stodger, Thatcher observed. He looked like he came with the place when it first opened its doors - and the fact that he was old enough to refer to Thatcher as ‘boy’ only lent more credence to the thought. The soldier fished out a few pound notes from his pocket and set them on the bar wordlessly, the only response from the barkeep being an exasperated mumble as he served another pint of golden bitter. 

_ A fuckin’ Moroccan castle? _ Thatcher nodded his thanks to the man behind the bar, took his glass and meandered over to one of the corner tables, perfect for sulking and quietly grousing over grievances of all shapes and sizes. 

Well, no, it wasn’t so much the castle as it was - an instructor. An  _ older _ instructor, at that.  _ Ah, that’s where the sting is. _ Six had brought Rainbow out of mothballs and now it was time for her to upgrade, just like every other aspect of the field. Not only that, but this one came with his own training facility, he’d read.  _ No way in hell she tries to move us, old man, don’t even think about it. _

“Well, don’t you look like fried shit,” the vaguely familiar voice spoke up, surprising him and causing him to snap his eyes up. Clash stood there at the foot of the table, pint of dark ale in one hand with the other braced against the tabletop as she leaned against it. “You savin’ a seat for anyone, or…” she gestured vaguely at one of the empty chairs across the table.

_ Great, just what I need, another fuckin’ upstart. _

“Make yourself at home, but I’m fair pissed an’ not in the best of moods, so don’t say I didn’t warn ya,” he finally responded, leaning back in his chair with a pitch-perfect old man grunt. He didn’t know much about Evans, he realized, furrowing his brow in mild disappointment. Had he been losing his touch after all?

Clash didn’t waste any time, setting the pint glass down and settling into the chair directly across from Thatcher, propping an elbow up on the table as she resumed leaning against it. “Please, like I haven’t been whinged at by grumpy old tossers my whole life. So, what’s got you all dour-like, mate? Break a hip?”

_ Oof. _ Her acerbic sense of humor wasn’t exactly helping matters, and the distaste must have been visible on his face, because she avoided a follow-up. “Nothing out of the ordinary, PC Eva-.”

“It’s Specialist Evans,” she cut him off.  _ Ah, that’s a button right there, ain’ it. _ He decided to try his luck.

“What, too good for your mates back at Scotland Yard now that you’re one of Six’s wunderkinds?” he remarked, only partially aware of the venomous tinge to his words as they left his mouth.  _ Ah, shit. _ The beer was getting the best of him.

He saw her bristle at it, too, and for a moment he wondered if Doc was going to be picking shards of glass out of his face by the night’s end, but instead she took a deep breath, exhaled long and slow, then pounded back the entirety of her pint glass before slamming it down on the wooden table.

“You’re a bloody piece of work, bruv. Where the hell d’you get off, spoutin’ off like that,”  _ Ah, you fucked up, mate _ . Clash planted both palms on the table and rose to her feet, looming over the edge and glaring down at the old soldier with an icy expression. “I’m as good as any one of you, else I wouldn’t be here. I’ve had it up to here with this boy’s club bullshit and if I’ve gotta put you on your arse to prove I belong, then step to and see what happens.”

_ Yep. Really fucked up. She’s one of you. _

Thatcher dug deep, gritting his teeth and motioning for Clash to sit back down as he scrunched his eyes closed and replied with a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

He continued, “I’m sorry, again. Like I said, I’m pissed an’, well, pissed.”

Clash regarded him coolly, leaning back in her chair with arms folded across her chest, thumbing idly at one of the buttons on her vest. “You’re not forgiven. Yet. What’s up your arse tonight, old man - besides your head?”

Thatcher considered the pint glass in front of him, which caught Clash’s attention. She shook her head, and he knew she was probably right. He breathed an irritated sigh, slumping back in his chair a bit. “Game’s changin’, girl, and I’m getting too old to change with it.”

She cocked her head. “So what, time for a midlife crisis? Gonna catch you in a car with the top down blasting ZZ Top while you do donuts around the base?”

A wheezing laugh. “No, no - fuck no. About a decade and change too late for a midlife crisis, I’m afraid.”

She gave an exaggerated shrug in response, “So, you’re just bitter ‘bout bein’ old.”

Thatcher massaged the bridge of his nose. “More than that, Evans. I don’t know that I’m even needed anymore. Look, you see that big golden crest hanging on the wall?” He sneaked a sip from his glass as she turned to follow where he was pointing. What looked like a large gold-plated shield was mounted on the wall, depicting an eagle with its wings spread, facing sinister. 

She looked at it for a moment, then back at him expectantly.

He scratched idly at the salt and pepper scruff along his jaw, sighing wearily. “Worldpark, must have been the double aughts. You were probably in secondary school, so I’m sure you saw it in the news. Hostage situation, resolved by local police?”

He saw the gears turning as she tried to remember, then a nod as realization dawned on her face. “Right, right, mum made us cancel our summer plans ‘cos of that. Shot a sick girl, an’ all.”

Thatcher nodded firmly in response. “That was Rainbow. Original Rainbow, mind, first generation. Brainchild of some old CIA spook the likes we’ll never see again, guaranteed. That was their trophy, right there. See,  _ that _ was terrorism.  _ That _ is what I trained to deal with. Simple matters, men with guns take hostages, better men with guns kill them and save the innocents. Not chemical attacks on universities and bloody parasites from space.”

“I’m sorry?” the last part caught a genuine look of confusion from Clash, and he hissed out a sigh at his slip-up. As far as he knew, Evans had the clearance same as anyone to access their operational history, but maybe she’d missed the memo about New Mexico.

“Ah, never you mind, a story for another day. Alexsandr tells it best, especially if you loosen him up with a fifth of vodka. But you see what I mean, yes?” He could see that he was getting through, and an audible sigh of relief escaped him. Clash furrowed her brow in thought, fingertips tapping against the table’s surface.

“You’ve been with us for what, since the reactivation? What’s got you upset now, then?” She didn’t seem to buy his explanation. Then he saw the look on her face as a new realization dawned, and she held up a finger. “You’re upset about The Fortress.”

_ And that’s you sunk, mate. _ Oh, and she knew she had him, too. It was all too evident. She slapped a hand down on the table again, bursting into uproarious laughter. “You’re upset ‘cos you’re not the teacher’s pet! Ha! She found some geezer older an’ wiser’n you!”

Thatcher returned fire, a fist brought down onto the table with enough force to turn a few heads as he leaned in close and spat out his rebuttal. “I’ve been SAS since before you were born,  _ specialist. _ You’re right that you belong here but don’t think for a second that you have anywhere close to my level of experience, and  _ that’s _ the point I’m tryin’ to make. I’m the expert. I’ve worked in tandem with those Americans and the first generation of Rainbow. I should be all that’s needed.”

It didn’t have the cowing effect he had hoped it would. But he was stubborn, and if she’d had her chance to posture and boast, then by God he’d have his. She stared at him in stunned silence, sure, but even he could tell it was less ‘awe’ and more ‘incredulity’. Shaking her head, Clash spoke up, “Bruv, do you know the first thing ‘bout training soldiers? And I don’ mean strokin’ your ego over pints with the lads, I mean actual God’s honest instructin’. Did you read his file at all? Mate, if the ol’ biddy has any sense ‘tween her ears, the two of you are gonna make the perfect team.”

He opened his mouth to speak but Clash just steamrolled right over any attempts at protest, continuing, “El Fassi’s no bloody slouch, neither. We’ll say you’ve got the classical trainin’, right? Embassy shit, hostages, men with ideals who want to see their mates freed and statements made. That’s great, sure, and then you have the other geezer, and he’s got experience with them other kinds. The blokes for whom the body count is the political statement, and whose mates don’t need freein’ ‘cos they’re all in paradise gettin’ dicked by the devil.”

_ Ah, sod it, she’s right and you know it, chap. _ Thatcher grimaced at that, rubbing his eye hard enough that he saw spots for a brief moment. His eyes met hers, and she knew he was seeing the big picture. “Right, see? You follow me now, mate?”

Thatcher nodded, equal parts sullen and humbled. He definitely didn’t expect to get schooled by the rookie, he bit the inside of his cheek as he shook his head firmly. Not a rookie, clearly. The gal had her head on straighter than any copper he’d ever traded words with. She really  _ was _ too good for her mates back at the Yard.

There was a bit of an awkward pause as the aging trooper mulled over his thoughts, while Clash kept a somewhat-respectful silence - she could tell he was down for the count, and to her credit she wasn’t jumping up and down on his neck in celebration of her ‘victory’.

“Specialist Evans, I owe you an apology,” he finally spoke up, sitting up in his seat and taking a pull from the room temperature pint with a bit of a grimace.

“You already said sorry, chum, but I can tell you mean it this time. Don’t worry, I won’t hold it over you for too long,” she replied with an impish smile that suggested the opposite. “Truth told, can’t say it was all that bad. Most the others are too skeptical on account of me being MPS and not proper military, but I do my five miles a day like any of ‘em, and my shooting’s up to snuff…” she trailed off, apparently realizing that she was venting.

Thatcher waved it off, nodding encouragingly. “S’fine, Evans, let’s hear it. You’re definitely an uncommon case, and Six needs to know how she can do it better next time we headhunt some promising constable out from under the Yard.”

“That’s just it, old man--”

“Baker, please. Every time you call me old, my hair gets whiter.” This got a chuckle, he saw.

“Fine, okay, Baker. I’m  _ not _ the first copper on the team, right? Hell, she didn’t go with Air Force or Marines when she was reactivatin’ us, no. She pulled the elites from us, the Frenchies, Germans and hell, somehow even the bleedin’ Russians, but all she brings to the table from her own backyard are the FBI? They’re a lesser acronym, at best.”

It was Thatcher’s turn to burst into laughter. “I had that  _ exact _ conversation with Six, you know? Went twelve rounds with her in Clark’s old office right here on the base, demanding to know why we weren’t getting proper special forces. Why do you think she was in a hurry to bring the SEALs on board after getting approval?” he tapped his temple with a knowing smile. “‘Sides, after their World Trade Center, every acronym on the books was trained in counter-terrorism. They know their stuff, and have had the time to prove it since.”

This prompted a thoughtful grunt from Clash. A sound he was all-too-familiar with, it meant ‘you’re right, but I refuse to verbally acknowledge it.’ Mute made it often.

“How are you settling in, anyway?” Thatcher found himself starting to warm up to the specialist. There was definitely more to her than her file suggested, and maybe it’d help grease the wheels with the rest of Rainbow if he was visible about accepting this little pet project of Six’s. “It’s you and what’s-his-name. Thorn, right?”

_ What kind of bloody name is ‘Erik Thorn’, anyway? _ He didn’t ask out loud.

He saw her shift in her seat, brow knotted in thought again as she considered the response. “We’re the new faces, sure, but Six made a proper team of it with Sky. Staff meeting on Monday if you want to see the think-tank in action,” she offered.

Thatcher nodded in tacit approval of the proposal. It’d be interesting to see how that particular crowd of people interacted under circumstances not brought about by an emergency. He didn’t expect Caviera to play nice, for one, and watching her lay into one of the other specialists if they stepped the wrong way would be worth the price of admission and then some.

“Well, you need anything, you let me know,” he finally said, the dour mood having slithered off without him realizing it. “There are a few benefits to being the geezer ‘round here, you know. Make sure Thorn knows he can reach out, too.”

He shouldn’t have added that last part, but now it was too late and Clash had found another button to push. “Ah ha, don’t tell me you’ve got your sights set on that sweet piece, grandpa. He’s bloody half your age!”

“He’s only twenty years youn--”

A peal of laughter. “You  _ looked it up?! _ ”

_ Piss, she got you again with that one.  _ “Hey, I wouldn’t be so quick to judge. I see you hounding Pichon over at R&D on the regular as of late. Your shield giving you that much trouble, is it?” He knew he’d scored a hit of his own with that one, as she nearly choked on her beer.

“Two things, bruv. First, I’m sorry, did I give you the impression that I was blind at any point? You expect me to ignore a fine French looker what I have the luck to work with? Secondly, come by the lab, I’ll show you the improvements she’s been making. The girl packs a mean punch.”

_ Ah, this one’s is in over her head. _ He couldn’t keep himself from laughing, shaking his head. “No thanks, I’m still a few years off from pissing into a bag, I’d rather not hurry it along.”

Their conversation was cut short by the barkeep announcing last call, prompting Clash to take her glass and reach over for Thatcher’s. “This round’s mine, let’s put it to bed and then get out of here, yeah?”

Thatcher did the math. A six pint night was going to cost him in the morning. Hell, it was going to cost him for the rest of the week at his age. He groaned in protest, but nodded anyway.  _ In for a penny, as they say. _

His eyes trailed after her as she marched the glasses over to the bar and had words with the old man, pausing a moment to gesture back at their table.  _ Admit it, you old bastard, you were wrong. _ He scowled down at the table, more embarrassed at his own reaction than anything. This one had a lot more to her than he expected of someone who came up through the Metro Police, and now he found himself taking a vested interested in her success at Rainbow. What the hell, if fuckin’ Jenson of all people could play mentor to the Korean lad, maybe he could take on a student of sorts.

As Clash returned to the table, he opened his mouth to speak, but was talked over by Clash as she slid another pint glass across the table to him. “Listen, Baker, I’ve an idea. You’re not wrong about your experience none, but let’s not pretend you wouldn’t benefit from a modern perspective. Let’s make this a regular thing, yeah?”

He canted his head. “What, like, drinks and shouting at each other?”

To his surprise, she gave an enthusiastic nod. “Oh, exactly. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve had a proper mentor, you know, and having someone to drink with is just gravy.”

So they were on the same wavelength, after all. He bobbed his head in a nod, but was cut off again before he could respond. “Mind you, you try and turn this into some kind of grimy teacher/student thing, I’ll knife you in the gut and call it a day. We square, geezer?”

And this time, Thatcher did choke on his beer. Not quite a spit take, more just a wheezing hack as he spat out the mouthful back into the glass. “ _ Excuse me? _ No, no absolutely not. What kind of pervert do you take me for, Evans?”

A smug grin was his response. “The kind what has eyes for well-traveled Americans twenty years his junior.”

Thatcher groaned. He was not going to hear the end of that one anytime soon. “You have nothing to worry about there, specialist, I’m not for the type what torments their elders.”

“Look at you, you’re learnin’ already! You didn’t say ‘betters,” Clash teased with a wicked grin, prompting an exasperated sigh. “Come on, let’s knock these back and head home. I have to tell Thorn he’s got a prospective sugar daddy.”

He nearly choked again, and this was met by uproarious laughter. “You keep fallin’ for it, I can’t help myself!”

_ I’ve made a huge mistake, she’s going to bloody kill me.  _ Thatcher shifted his weight in his char, cracking a smile of his own in response. “That’s it, it’s time for a history lesson, you absolute hellion. Now look, times were different in 1980, the Cold War was all anyone talked about, and we get a phone call ‘round the first of May. Turns out there’s some trouble down at the Iranian embassy, you know, back when we were still on speaking terms.”

He saw Clash roll her eyes, but she settled in for the ride anyway. Wasn’t every day you got to rehash the nitty gritty details of Operation Nimrod, after all, and she had her fair share of questions that the history books weren’t able to provide a fair answer to. Closing time came and went, with the barkeep leaving the keys at their table and telling Thatcher to lock up when they were done - he was nothing if not a trusted regular by this point, after all - and the two operatives showed no signs of stopping as they enthusiastically dissected the events of the embassy siege. All in all, Thatcher thought, it wasn’t bad for a six pint night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha ha no these two are not happening.


End file.
